by Sean Ellis
"You make it sound so pedestrian."
Kismet chuckled at the observation. "Well, I do occasionally go into battle in the courtroom, but mostly I inspect digs to make sure that the laws are being observed, and try to shut down illegal art smuggling operations."
Irene pointed to the statue. "Is that something you got to keep?"
"I'm not sure, but it just might be our ace in the hole." He ran his fingers along its length, probing for unnoticed irregularities or incongruous defects. He turned it on its side, and then examined the calf's belly. Finally, he turned his attention to the sun disk between the horns of the idol. The block Hebrew characters--engraved characters of the Aramaic alphabet rather than the more spidery paleo-Hebrew used prior to the third century BCE--looked back at him with all the authority the word inscribed there carried. Some rabbis held that the name itself was a word of great power, but its actual pronunciation was an incomprehensible mystery because the vowels that connected the four consonants were unknown. Did those letters, the anachronism that had revealed the idol's fraudulent nature to him, hold the secret that made the golden calf statue so desirable, both to the German agent and to Lysette Lyon? If it did, the significance escaped him. He turned the artifact once more.
There it was: a faint line as thin as a hair encircling the circumference of the disk. He inserted a fingernail and exerted pressure until the disk popped open like a keepsake locket. A concealed jeweler's hinge held it fast on the bottom edge.
Kismet swiped his finger across the inside of the hollow space and dislodged a tiny reclosable bag, about the size of a postage stamp, which contained a wafer thin piece of blue plastic. Laying the statue aside, he gave closer attention to this new item.
"It's a memory card," he realized aloud. He had completely forgotten his houseguest, and Irene was forced to quickly back out of the hidden enclosure as Kismet raced purposefully back into the bedroom.
Kismet grabbed his notebook computer off the nightstand and slipped the secure digital file storage device into the appropriate port. The file directory opened, but the card evidently had only one executable file, which Kismet double-clicked.
The screen abruptly went black then words started scrolling from bottom to top. German words. He mentally paraphrased a translation, quickly getting the gist of the two paragraph long messages that commenced the program. The first was a security warning, stating that only certain people were authorized to view what followed, and that if one was not a high ranking member of the Bundeswehr, the German ministry of defense or something called Alb-Werk, then continuing to watch constituted espionage and would be dealt with in the most severe way. Kismet glanced at Irene, who was staring once more over his shoulder. "Do you speak German?"
She shook her head.
"Good." The second paragraph was more of a proprietary statement, once more invoking the name of Alb-Werk, followed by a brief introduction stating that what followed was for general presentation purposes only; further technical information would be made available upon request. As the scrolling words left the screen, a logo, stylized from the name of the parent company, flashed in the center, then again went dark. What followed looked incredibly realistic, but Kismet noted a distinctive uniformity in the texture of the images that gave it away as the product of computer-generated animation.
The visual presentation began with a sweeping aerial shot descending down toward a dense forest in the purple of twilight falling. As the perspective leveled out, Kismet saw a generic military compound looming ahead. The point of view switched suddenly to a loose cluster of soldiers standing on the ground and gazing up at the barely visible silhouette of the aircraft as a cylindrical object, presumably a bomb, fell from its undercarriage. The device deployed stubby wings, and adjusted course incrementally as momentum carried it forward in a downward curve. The delivery aircraft then kicked in its afterburners, disappearing from the sky in a blaze of blue flame.
Two seconds later the bomb detonated high above the military base in a burst of brilliance that filled the screen. The light, probably a graphic special effect designed to impress the viewing audience, quickly faded, only to be replaced by what Kismet took to be a more accurate expression of the bomb's capability. The presentation broke from real time in order to relive the bomb blast from different perspectives and at different rates of progress. It was difficult in the first few scenes to understand how the device differed from a nuclear or large conventional explosive, but in the fourth cut scene, Kismet realized what he was witnessing.
The bomb created no shock wave, no blast of kinetic force. Instead, the airburst unleashed a cascade of particles, shown in the presentation as a silvery rain, which destroyed electronic equipment and central nervous systems alike. Living tissue, whether human flesh or vegetation, was vaporized instantly, while radio equipment and missile guidance systems began to spontaneously burst into flames.
The final scene showed a fleet of helicopters moving into the affected area, deploying ground troops across the compound. The men wore traditional combat gear, rather than special protective equipment, as might be used in a nuclear or biological hot zone. It was, Kismet realized, the holy grail of warfare: a bomb that killed the enemy without destroying infrastructure or permanently contaminating the drop site.
The dramatization ended with one soldier stepping forward to proudly raise the black, yellow and red flag of Germany. Immediately, the image on the screen segued into an exploded schematic of the weapon itself. Kismet recognized the basic components of an implosion device, a ball shaped charge surrounded by titanium plates that forced the blast inward, focusing the explosive energy into the fission core. He knew that in a nuclear device, the implosion would drive neutrons through the core material—plutonium or uranium—splitting the atom apart and releasing its latent energy in a tremendous blast, but this bomb was different. The core material was not a radio-isotope. It was identified only by its designation on the periodic table of elements, modified by a minus sign: Au-. The screen continued to show this final piece of information for few more seconds, then blinked out.
On an impulse, Kismet grabbed a battered copy of the New York Library Science Desk Reference from his bookshelf and thumbed through until he found the periodic table of the elements. "Gold?" he murmured. "Negatively charged gold?"
Had German researchers figured out a way to turn one of the most precious of metals on earth, into one of the most lethal, utilizing it in the core of a proposed new electromagnetic bomb? If so, what were those plans doing hidden in a bogus statue? And how had that parcel come into the possession of his old college flame Lysette Lyon?
Slightly annoyed at being ignored, Irene frowned and cleared her throat. "If you don't mind, I'm going to grab a glass of water."
"No!" Kismet looked up suddenly. He saw her jump and instantly regretted the sharpness of his tone. "I'm sorry. The kitchen is a mess right now. Are you hungry?"
"Famished. I could eat a horse."
He snapped the laptop shut without removing the disc. "Actually, I was thinking we could go for Italian."
* * *
Despite its reputation as 'the city that never sleeps,' New York does grow quieter as the night deepens. At twelve thirty a.m. however, half an hour into a new year, the streets of Brooklyn were still wide-awake. There had been the requisite bursts of noise, fireworks and car horns at the fall of midnight, followed by the exodus of partygoers trundling home. Kismet kept a solitary vigil, watching the events from the window of Mama Rosa's Italian Ristorante. Irene, drowsy after consuming a helping of leftover eggplant parmesan and a glass of red table wine, had already succumbed to the refuge of sleep. She lay in the darkened dining room, a checkered tablecloth pulled around her shoulders and a bundle of cloth napkins beneath her head, while Kismet nursed the remaining drops of wine, struggling to stay awake until Lyse kept the rendezvous.
He had discovered the Italian eatery shortly after moving into the neighborhood, and had quickly been adopted by Sal, the he
ad chef. Over the years, the relationship had grown close enough that Kismet had been trusted with a key and the alarm code, and was told in no uncertain terms to make himself at home whenever he felt like it, as long as he didn't leave a mess. It was an arrangement that he confidently believed to be a secret from men such as Halverson Grimes.
Lyse arrived half an hour after Irene fell asleep. She entered quietly, nodding in affirmation when Kismet raised a finger to his lips, and followed him to the bar.
"Sorry I'm so late," she whispered, easing onto a stool beside the counter. "I've been everywhere tonight."
"No problem," replied Kismet. "Are you hungry?"
"Oh, yeah. I could eat a horse right now."
He grinned. "That's a popular choice tonight. How about a meatball hero?"
"As long as you do all the work."
"Just like old times." Kismet rose and led her into the kitchen. "So, what's the story? Were you able to follow Harcourt?"
"Yeah. How about you? I see you saved the damsel in distress from the clutches of the evil villain."
"All that and more." He laid a plate in front of her. Upon it was a split loaf of bread, piled with meatballs and dripping with marinara sauce. Lyse rubbed her hands together eagerly as he took a seat at the bar beside her. Given her trim figure, he had always been amazed at her appetite. As she devoured the meal, Kismet recounted the evening's events up to the point where they escaped from Times Square. Lyse nodded often, but offered no opinions. "Now it's your turn," he finished.
She virtually inhaled the remaining bites of her sandwich before answering. "My evening wasn't quite as wild as yours, but at least you were in better company. I spent most of the time driving, by myself."
''How sad for you."
"Spare me the sarcasm. Care to guess where your pal Andy went?"
"He left the country."
Lyse nodded. "He, along with that Russian guy and a couple of the guys in suits that all look alike drove to JFK and got on a flight to Paris. I don't know if that's their last stop."
"It isn't. My guess is he'll make one more stop in Germany to rendezvous with Grimes before leaving for their final destination. Grimes is spying for the Germans."
Lyse's mouth fell open. "That's a pretty serious accusation, Nick. I know he's up to no good, but a spy? And for the Germans? They're our friends."
"I can prove it. The question is: what are you going to do about it?"
There was an almost imperceptible pause between his statement and her rebuttal. "Me? Why should it matter to me?"
Kismet leaned back on his stool and gazed at the ceiling. "Look Lyse, I understand that you probably aren't able to tell me the truth about what you really do. But doing what I do...well, let's just say it's a lot like being a detective, and believe me you've left plenty of clues laying around that point to only one conclusion."
She tried to flash her notorious smile, but couldn't quite pull it off. "What conclusion is that?"
"Do I need to spell it out? It's just three letters: CIA. You don't have to confirm what I say. But if you want to nod or something, that would be helpful."
"I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about."
"I should have realized it in Morocco," he continued, unmoved by her denial. "The whole situation was just too strange to be taken at face value. What, did you set things up with the Fat Man, so that I would have to help you out? I don't appreciate being used as your mule, Lyse. Especially without knowing what the stakes were. If you'd done your research on that particular piece, you might have actually fooled me, but I spotted the fake and threw a monkey wrench into your plan.
"Even at that, there was nothing to make me suspect that this was about anything besides some elaborate con job you were running. That German who chased us through the streets of Marrakech—there could have been a logical explanation for that—at least until he showed up at my place tonight, waving a silenced twenty-two and demanding I hand over the statue."
Lyse jumped out of her chair and stood bolt upright. "You didn't give it to him, did you?"
Kismet grinned. He drew out the wrapped parcel containing the idol and passed it to her. "If you tell your superiors, or whomever, they might be able to arrest the guy before his buddies come looking for him. He's in my refrigerator."
Lyse paused in her hasty unwrapping of the golden calf long enough to raise an eyebrow at Kismet's last statement. "I take it that this German told you that Grimes is spying for them?"
"Not in so many words. Perhaps your people can persuade him to talk more freely."
"My people?" echoed Lyse. "So you persist in believing that I am some kind of secret agent."
"Your denials are wasting valuable time, my dear. I'm handing you that German and Halverson Grimes on a silver platter. If you don't act quickly, it will be your own loss. I have more important matters to take care of."
Lyse set the idol down on the counter, gazing at it as if it were a trophy she had earned. "Okay, Nick, you're right. I can't tell you anything about what I do, but you've hit pretty close to the mark. And let me just say that Hal Grimes has been the subject of scrutiny for a long time. But he's a very powerful man, with a lot of friends."
"I noticed."
"What doesn't make any sense is his involvement with Harcourt. He's risking exposure without any real gain."
"That's where you're wrong. There's everything to gain if he finds the Golden Fleece."
"That? I thought you said it was a fairy tale."
"I'm revising my opinion. Like you said, it doesn't make sense for him to risk this, unless the Fleece is real. And I suspect that its value may be more than just historic."
"Like what? Magic or something?"
"Maybe." He hadn't worked out all the details, but just now thought better of trusting Lyse—and the people she was worked for—with details about the substance Harcourt had called 'ubergold.' "Whatever the case, Grimes must not find it. I'm going to get it before he does. And hopefully rescue Peter Kerns too."
"Really?" She tried the smile again, and this time pulled it off successfully. "Well, good luck."
"I'm going to need more than just luck, Lyse. I'm going to need your help."
"My help as in my help? Or as in the Company?"
Kismet sighed. "The latter, I'm afraid."
She toyed with her fork for a moment before answering. "I can see where our interests might coincide. What have you got in mind?"
"The first part is easy. I need discreet transportation for Irene and myself to anywhere in southern Europe. Greece would be fine. Or Turkey. Our ultimate destination is the Republic of Georgia."
"Georgia?" Lyse breathed a rare curse. "Things have been pretty volatile there of late. Are the Russians involved in this?"
Kismet shook his head. "I don’t think so. But that's why I'm going to need something else from you."
Lyse listened as Kismet briefly outlined his plan, a growing look of incredulity clouding her features. "Absolutely not," she declared when he finished. "Even if I could do that, it's sheer lunacy. With the situation there right now, we could start a war. A real war against a nation with a real military."
"You don't have a choice Lyse."
"Don't have a choice?"
"Grimes must not get the Fleece. That ought to be reason enough for you to help me, but if it isn't, then I'll go one better. I'll trade you for your help."
Lyse stopped fuming long enough to inquire. "Trade what?"
"The final clue that convinced me that you made a radical career change after we went our separate ways all those years ago. The real reason you wanted me to smuggle that golden calf into the United States."
For the second time that evening, Lyse's mouth fell open. She snatched the idol off the counter, felt for the tiny gap in the sun disk, popped it open and looked inside. The hollow space was empty.
"What was that anyway?" Kismet continued innocently. "Plans for some kind of electromagnetic pulse bomb?"
"Give i
t to me Nick. This goes way beyond our friendship. People have died for those secrets."
"You can have it when—make that if—I get back from Georgia in one piece. It would be a shame if I died over there and took the secret of where I hid it to the grave. Especially if you could have helped me and didn't."
"Nick, this is a matter of national importance."
"So is finding the Fleece. I'm no physicist, but something tells me that Grimes' interest in the Fleece has more to do with your bomb and less a lingering interest in Classical Greek folklore. Trust me, when your superiors find out what's at stake, they'll support the idea."
"Damn you." Lyse leaned back and dropped her hands to the bar. "Fine, I'll tell them about it. I'll do whatever it takes. But you have to give me the information that was in the statue."
"Sorry. That's my insurance policy. Your superiors should be told that as well."
Lyse was silent for several moments. "This isn't my decision. I'll pass it upstairs and see what I can do." She sighed in defeat. "Jesus, Nick. I hope you know what you're doing."
Kismet opened his mouth to reply, and then thought better of it. He gazed across the room, toward the seating area where Irene was soundly sleeping, and realized that his motives were not nearly as straightforward as he had led Lyse to believe. He turned back to her and chose to answer with the truth. "Actually, I haven't the faintest idea what I'm doing."
PART TWO:
HIGHER GROUND
SEVEN
Long before man conquered the vast expanses of open ocean that separate the continents, ancient mariners roamed the interior waterways delineated by the coastlines of Europe, Africa and Asia. Ancient tales of maritime explorations recorded by poets and historians of the Classical Age tell of epic journeys by god-like heroes along the coastlines of these lesser bodies of water. Geographers of the day recognized "Seven Seas," a catchall phrase to be sure. For the most part, they are elegantly named. The Mediterranean, once called simply "the Great Sea," literally translates to the Middle of the World. Between Africa and the Arabian desert, there is the Red Sea, best known for being the site of the miraculous exodus from Egypt. Separating Italy from Greece and Macedonia are the Adriatic and Ionian seas. Between Greece and Turkey--and the lands claimed by both--there is the legendary Aegean Sea. And then there is the marine cul de sac, shaped almost like a pair of wings, formed by a recent—recent in geological terms—flood so awesome as to have possibly inspired parts of the Epic of Gilgamesh, which in turn is believed to have been the source of the Biblical story of the Great Flood. Yet, despite its mythic origin and not inconsiderable size, this unusual body of water carries a rather prosaic name: the Black Sea.
